


Won't You (Lay Hands on Me)

by FoxCollector



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angsty Jon, Canon Deaths Mentioned, Hand Jobs, Jon just needs to chill and relax, Kinda, M/M, Massage, Thoughts about death, ambiguously takes place after series, but I got feelings involved, look this was supposed to be just smut, slight fingering, so many feelings, sort of one-sided but I think it's implied there will be more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25285852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxCollector/pseuds/FoxCollector
Summary: Jon can't sleep, Tormund helps him relax.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 12
Kudos: 190





	Won't You (Lay Hands on Me)

**Author's Note:**

> This was not intended but it popped into my head and wouldn't go away until I wrote it, so yeah. Title comes from TV on the Radio's "Wolf Like Me". 
> 
> Um, I'm pretty sure I got certain details wrong on some counts, but I'm not overly familiar with clothing construction and Wildling wedding conventions, so just take it as it is. I'm only partway through the first novel so this is really show based, and no one wears underwear in Westeros, so.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

“What are you thinking about?” Tormund’s voice is a rumble in the dark that Jon feels as much as hears.

“Nothing,” Jon says. It’s a lie. He’s hoping Tormund will let him have it.

“Don’t be difficult, little crow,” Tormund grumbles. “I can hear you thinking.”

Jon huffs. He supposes he must have been fidgeting, pressed up close like this it was probably keeping Tormund from sleep. He supposes the least he can do is give him something for his trouble.

“My family,” Jon says finally.

“What about them?” Tormund asks. Pushes, really.

Jon feels him shift, bringing an arm to rest over Jon’s middle, more or less trapping him in place.

Jon tries to shrug. “Can’t I just miss them?”

“Aye, you can,” Tormund says. “But just missing them doesn’t keep you up at night like this.”

Jon is silent for a moment. Maybe Tormund knows him a little better than he thought.

It’s cold, not as cold as outside, or as cold as it would be if he were alone, but there’s a chill in the air that threatens to seep through the furs and the all too thin layers of clothes and skin to settle into his bones. It’s a chill like the grave, he thinks.

He wasn’t really lying. He is thinking about his family.

And he does miss them.

But he isn’t thinking about Sansa, warm by her fires and surrounded by people who would die to protect her. Jon would die for her too.

He isn’t thinking about Arya, who is braver than he is, and going far away to see the world and explore it just because she wants to, because she chose to.

He isn’t thinking about Bran, who isn’t the same little boy he grew up with. Bran is a stranger even to himself, and Jon misses the man he might have been, but he isn’t worried about him where he sits warm in the south.

No, his mind is stuck on the ones cold in the ground.

His father, beheaded like a deserter. Like the cowards who fled from the Wall. And Sansa forced to see his head on a spike. It doesn’t feel like something that belongs in a just world.

He thinks about Robb, murdered in a place he thought was safe. Or safe enough he didn’t know to look for a threat. Jon wishes sometimes he had left the Wall, gone down to join his brother, to keep him safe the way Robb always tried to look out for him. He can’t stand the thought of what they did to him. To his body, to his wolf – It hurts his heart too much. And that Arya had seen – He stops the thought. If there were ghosts, Jon thinks Robb might be one, restless in his shallow grave on a night like this. How could there be peace after that?

And Rickon. He’d grown so much, but he was still so small. Shot through the back inches from safety, hopeless desperation on his face right until the end. Jon had seen that one himself. It still burns deep in his chest, right next to the knife wound in his heart.

“Death,” Jon says quietly. “I’m thinking about death.”

He’s died too. And still, he doesn’t understand it. It wasn’t final. It wasn’t absence, he wasn’t gone. He wasn’t himself, and he wasn’t nothing. It was like seeing the world through another pair of eyes. Seeing his own body laid out and small.

Was that what death was?

Is that what his father saw? What Robb saw?

He thinks Robb would have been a better choice to resurrect. Or his father.

Anyone but him.

Tormund’s hand creeps up and Jon stiffens. They’re close for warmth, and he’s used to that by now, but there’s still something about it that always makes him a little tense. As though if he were to let his guard down, something might happen. That seems irrational, he’s not afraid of anything Tormund might do.

Not afraid. But something else, maybe.

The way the other man moves now makes Jon hesitate until he settles a large hand over the scars on Jon’s chest, hidden as they are beneath his layers.

“And? You’ve been there,” Tormund says. “You came back.”

“And none of my family did,” Jon says into the darkness.

Somewhere outside, Ghost is prowling about. He’ll come back before morning, and Jon will probably wake up with a face full of fur.

“Ah,” Tormund says. His breath is hot against Jon’s neck. “There it is.”

Jon sighs. “There what is?”

“The guilt,” Tormund says simply. “It’s not your fault you got to come back when none of them did. You know that.”

“I understand it,” Jon says. “Or I know it. But that doesn’t mean it –” makes sense? Is fair? Is right? Feels better? “That doesn’t mean it’s right. It doesn’t help,” he finishes.

“Aye, it isn’t fair,” Tormund says. “Not much is. But we can’t change those things.”

His hand on Jon’s chest is a comforting weight and Jon finds himself leaning in to the warmth behind him slightly, pressing against the long line of Tormund’s body.

Tormund doesn’t move away, and that makes something hot settle in Jon’s stomach.

“No,” Jon agrees. _That’s the problem_ , he doesn’t say.

“All you can do is live for the dead,” Tormund says. “They don’t need your guilt. They need you to keep their memory alive.”

Jon kind of likes that. It makes him feel somehow a bit more important. A bit more useful. But still…

“Sometimes,” Jon says, and this he addresses to the darkness closing around him, the darkness he wants to swallow him whole so Tormund won’t see his face, “I think… dead is better.”

“For who?” Tormund pulls away slightly and cold air pools between their bodies.

Jon doesn’t answer.

“For you?” Tormund says after a moment. “Easier, maybe. But better? Who would have helped your sisters then? Your brother? Who would have rallied the North and the Dragon Queen to fight the dead? Easier for you, but not better for anyone else. Didn’t take you for a coward, Jon Snow.”

“I’m not a coward,” Jon protests. He knows Tormund is right. He wouldn’t trade his siblings for his peace. “I’m just… tired.”

“Aye. And you’ve forgotten there’s more to life than fighting,” Tormund says. He moves back in, and Jon is grateful for the returning warmth.

“Isn’t that why I came back?” Jon says. “To fight.”

“And you’re still here afterwards. You didn’t fall down dead when it was all over. There’s more left for you than just fighting,” Tormund says. “And there’s good kinds of tired.”

Jon blinks in the dark, genuinely confused until his mind summons the ache of muscle after a good spar. The satisfaction of a watch so late into the night even the moon hangs heavy above. The joy of putting his brothers to bed and then collapsing alongside them. The comfort of staying up talking with a friend until the sun comes up on the horizon. The stretched-out bliss of an intimate moment in a hot cave.

He flushes at that thought. It’s been a long time since he was that warm. That at home in his own skin.

Longer still since he was any other kind of tired than bone weary.

Jon shifts, suddenly aware of every inch of his body, and then very aware of all the places their bodies touch; Tormund’s hand on his chest, their legs from the thigh down, and Tormund’s thick chest brushing his back on every deep breath.

“I suppose,” Jon says finally.

“Go to sleep, Jon Snow,” Tormund says. “You’ve earned that, at least.”

“I can’t,” Jon says.

Tormund sighs, and his breath ruffles Jon’s hair. “You want me to knock you out?”

Jon startles himself with a laugh. “It might be the only way to force me out of my head.”

Tormund laughs now, low and rough. “I can think of better ways.” His hand on Jon’s chest drags over his ribs to the scars lower on his belly.

“Like what?” Jon isn’t keen on getting drink, and there’s no way he’s getting up for a late-night sparring match. He tells Tormund as much.

Tormund is silent. Then he says, “I can never tell when you’re joking, Jon Snow.”

“What would I be joking about?” Jon leans to look at Tormund over his shoulder, but it brings their faces too close and Jon is grateful for the dark as his face heats.

Tormund was frowning, though, he thinks. “You aren’t joking?”

“No?”

“I wasn’t thinking of sparring. Not exactly,” Tormund says. “Something a little different.”

Jon sighs. “Like what?”

“Would you let me help you?” Tormund asks.

Jon blinks in the darkness. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing you don’t want. You tell me to stop, and I will,” Tormund says. His hand rubs idle circles over Jon’s chest, and that doesn’t feel too bad at all.

Jon thinks about it. He’s not 100% sure where this is going, which would normally mean it was probably a bad idea, but he trusts Tormund with more than his life. He has no doubt the other man would stop if he asked. And no doubt Tormund wouldn’t hurt him.

He decides not to overthink it.

“Alright,” Jon says softly.

He can practically feel Tormund grinning behind him.

Tormund shifts slightly, moving away enough that cold air rushes in again and Jon shivers. He places a hand on Jon’s back.

“Used to do this for my wife,” Tormund says as he drags his fingertips down Jon’s spine. It’s not rough, he is relying on the points of his fingers and just the edge of his fingernails.

It makes Jon’s back arch involuntarily and he has to make himself settle back in.

“Okay?” Tormund asks.

“Yeah,” Jon says. “Just surprised.” It’s nice, and it makes him realize that no one has touched him like this in a while. It’s different from Ygritte. And different from –

He stops the thought.

Tormund does it again, and then fans out to the side with one hand, working muscles loose with nonsense patterns.

Jon makes a small noise.

Tormund lightens his touch to a feather-soft drag that makes Jon shudder, and then he presses down harder, fingers digging into muscle knots.

That’s.

That’s _good_.

Jon shifts slightly, exposing more of his back, and Tormund makes a pleased noise.

His nonsense patterns center on Jon’s shoulders, and then trace down in two lines. He pokes Jon in the back twice and continues in a sweeping motion.

“Are you… drawing?” Jon asks. It almost feels wrong to speak while this is happening. Like it will make Tormund stop.

Tormund chuckles. “Aye. Was just making one of those face trees.”

Jon smiles. Of course.

He draws rough triangles across Jon’s back.

“Mountains?”

“Aye.”

And then he traces a finger from the base of Jon’s neck almost right to the base of Jon’s spine and draws out a dozen lines on each side.

It makes Jon shiver and he realizes with no small amount of embarrassment that his body has started to respond and he’s already half-hard in his underclothes.

“That one was easy,” Tormund says.

“Tree,” Jon chokes out. He should ask Tormund to stop now and either will his problem away or go and take care of it.

But he’s finally so relaxed and –

“Don’t tense up again,” Tormund says.

Jon sighs and forces his shoulders down.

Tormund soothes up the line of his back with careful touches and it’s nice. He never wants it to stop. He likes being handled like something soft.

Jon bites his lip. What is wrong with him? Has it been that long? Is he that desperate?

“I think you should stop,” he says quietly.

Tormund’s hand stills and then falls away, leaving a chill where it used to be.

“Not good?” Tormund asks.

Jon feels hot all over. “No, it was fine. More just… the opposite.” Was that too much to say? Will Tormund be disgusted with him?

“Liked it a little too much?” Tormund chuckles. “It happens. Used to put my wife in the mood sometimes too.”

“Um.” It feels a thousand times more embarrassing that Tormund knows. That’s he’s being good-natured about it and not making fun of him or being disgusted.

“You going to do something about it?” Tormund asks.

“No?!” Jon makes an indignant noise.

“Why, because I’m here? You Southerners have strange notions about privacy. How’s it different from waking up that way in bed with another man?” Tormund asks.

“It is,” Jon says, “because you don’t… you aren’t aware. And I wouldn’t take care of it if I woke up like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, boy,” Tormund says. “When’s the last time you enjoyed yourself?”

Jon prickles with heat. “That’s not – I don’t-”

“Long time, then,” Tormund says knowingly. “Trust me, you’ll feel better.”

“Tormund, stop,” Jon says.

“Alright,” he says. “Didn’t mean to tease. Was only trying to help.”

Jon hunches in slightly. He doesn’t feel so good anymore.

He’s cold again, and he feels alone in a way he can’t place. Silence stretches out and Jon can already feel his erection wilting.

Tormund sighs. “If you let me, I’ll take care of you. You say ‘no’ and we can go to sleep. You say ‘yes’ and I’ll make you relax again. I’ll help empty that pretty head of yours right out so there’s no space for bad dreams.”

Jon frowns at the darkness.

There’s nothing mocking in Tormund’s tone, no malice, just bald honesty and something like concern, maybe dangerously close to want.

If this were anyone else, he would expect mockery and to be taken advantage of and humiliated.

But it’s Tormund, and he has yet to give Jon a reason to doubt him. If he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t say it.

Jon opens his mouth, still unsure what to say. What comes out is, “I trust you.”

Tormund inhales sharply behind him. When he speaks again his voice is thick. “It’ll be good. Same thing as before. You say stop, I stop.”

“I know you will,” Jon says.

Tormund mumbles something he can’t quite make out.

Jon isn’t quite sure what he’s expecting, but it isn’t entirely for Tormund’s hands to resume their earlier restless wandering over his back.

Still, that’s nice, familiar by now and easier to relax into.

This time, however, when Tormund reaches the hem of his shirt his fingers ghost over the bare skin there and it sends sparks up Jon’s spine.

It doesn’t take long for him to grow half-hard again. Especially not when Tormund pushes his shirt up to work at his naked back. The contrast of the chilled air and heated fingers is a pleasant thrill.

Slowly Tormund works his hand over Jon’s side, and it tickles a little at the joint of his hip. He rucks Jon’s shirt up under his armpits and moves his hand over Jon’s chest, tracing his scars with delicate fingers. There’s a certain reverence to his touch at the scar over Jon’s heart that makes Jon hold his breath momentarily.

“Good?” Tormund asks.

He nods. “Still good.”

Tormund’s fingers slide over a nipple on their way across his chest and it makes him shudder. Tormund shifts his hand to the other one, rubbing over it with the rough pad of his thumb.

It’s good, and Jon finds himself pushing into the touch a little. He hadn’t known he was quite that sensitive, he hadn’t really gotten to try all that much with Ygritte before -

Tormund pinches him and it pushes his thought process off track. Probably just as well.

It's not long before the attention has him slightly breathless and he isn’t sure what to do with his hands, with any part of his body, but he can feel he’s almost fully hard now and the friction of his thin pants isn’t nearly enough.

He shudders at the cold air on his abused nipples as Tormund’s hand drifts slowly south.

Jon’s breath catches in nervous anticipation, but Tormund skims down the side of his hip and strokes up his thigh. It’s both relaxing and frustrating.

He slowly massages along the outside and then the inside, and Jon has to shift to give him more access as his fingers find places Jon hadn’t really noticed he liked to be touched. All he can think about is how it would feel to have that hand on his skin, and he’s achingly hard now. It really has been a while.

On every pass of his fingers Tormund stops just shy of where Jon wants him to touch. He can admit that to himself now, desperate as he is, and there doesn’t seem to be a reason not to want it. Jon shifts a bit more, opening his legs a little wider, trying to make an invitation of his body. His hands clench restlessly where they lie.

Would it be too much to touch back? He wants to take Tormund's hand and put it where he needs, and he has the strangest urge to curl his fingers into Tormund's hair and tug.

Tormund chuckles. “Alright there, Jon?”

Jon makes a frustrated noise. “Are you planning to tease me to death?”

“Just building a little anticipation. You act like no one’s ever spoiled you before.”

Jon doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

Tormund is silent for a moment, then he makes a tutting sound. “Isn’t that a shame.”

He finally draws his palm over Jon’s clothed erection and Jon can’t help the way his hips buck into the touch. He reaches unconsciously to grip Tormund's forearm, feeling muscles shift beneath his hand.

“Okay?” Tormund asks.

“What?” Jon asks breathlessly. “Yes. Good.” He doesn't let go, just loosens his grip a little. He likes feeling connected like this; however this might be.

That makes Tormund rub him through his layers, tracing the line of his cock with idle touches. Jon grits his teeth and tries to shift his hips for more, more pressure, more of that touch. Behind him he is aware that Tormund is hard now, too; can feel it pressed against his backside when he rolls his hips. It’s both intimidating and intoxicating.

“Alright then, come on,” Tormund says. He removes his hand, shaking Jon's grip loose, and Jon makes a noise far too close to a whimper at the loss. Tormund takes hold of his shoulder. “On your back,” he says.

Jon allows himself to be rolled so that he is lying prone on his back and Tormund is pressed hot along his side.

“Can I touch you?” Tormund’s fingers trace the front of Jon’s breeches.

“Yes,” Jon says, blood boiling in the cold air. “Yes, anywhere. Everywhere.” He reaches down and undoes his own laces and slides them down, kicking them off one foot.

Tormund traces a hand down his bare chest to his exposed abdomen and then over the head of his cock where it’s smearing fluid across his skin.

“So desperate for it,” Tormund says.

It makes Jon aware of how entirely exposed he is, and he shifts as though to cover himself. He has been a little – what’s the word? Theon would have said wanton, like the whores supposedly always were when he visited them in town – it’s unbecoming.

Isn’t it?

Tormund catches his arms, shifting up. He places them above Jon’s head. “None of that, now. I didn’t say it was a bad thing. I want you desperate.”

That makes Jon flush with a strange mixture of embarrassment and heat.

Tormund skims a palm back down Jon’s chest and his muscles twitch and quiver at the touch. This time when he reaches his cock, he grips it; stroking down and then back up infuriatingly slow.

Jon chews his lip and tries not to buck up into it. Tormund’s hand dips lower, cupping his balls for a moment and then he drifts all the way back up to tweak a nipple.

Tormund grunts. “My arm is getting sore.”

“Oh,” Jon breathes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m only telling you so you don’t panic when I do this.” Tormund shifts up and then rolls on top of Jon, settling between his legs and supporting himself over top of him.

This –

Jon can’t decide if he loves it or hates it. On the one hand it’s colder, the furs have fallen away and that leaves him completely and terribly exposed to the night air. And to Tormund. With the man between his thighs like this there’s nothing he could do to hide if he wanted to. And he's not sure he does. On the other hand, Tormund is warm where they touch, and his weight pressing him down is reassuring, grounding in a way Jon wasn’t anticipating. And he finds there’s a strange exhilaration to being naked like this. He grips the furs above him to stop his hands from doing something stupid. 

“There we go.” Tormund sits back slightly. “Okay?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admits.

“If it’s too much –”

“I’ll say it,” Jon says.

This time when Tormund touches him it’s with both hands. He has large hands, and Jon finds he likes the way they feel on his skin.

They skirt across his chest, and when he tweaks both nipples at once it makes Jon grunt and buck his hips.

He likes the way Tormund’s hands frame his hips and cup his thighs as he pulls them up to frame him where he sits. He slides his hands down slowly until they hit Jon’s ass and then gently moves them to stroke his inner thighs. It’s overwhelming, to be touched like this. He feels raw and frayed in a way that makes him lightheaded with want. It’s embarrassing to want this so much, and his body feels flushed and weak. But he trusts Tormund to take care of him.

“Shame it’s so dark,” Tormund mutters.

Jon’s not sure he shares the sentiment. The darkness is the only thing holding the last shred of his dignity. Without it, Tormund would see how red in the face he knows he is and how much his cock is dripping already.

Of course, Tormund probably figures that out pretty quickly when his hand wraps around it again.

Jon makes a noise that is alarmingly close to a keen. He wants to push into the touch until he comes apart. He wants Tormund to put his mouth on him anywhere and everywhere. He wants –

Tormund grips him a little tighter, his other hand pinching at Jon’s nipples.

It’s more than what Jon would do to himself but that contrast makes it better, drives it home that this is someone else touching him.

“Go on then,” Tormund says. His hand is slick and warm around him, and his free hand slides down to pull at Jon’s balls again. “Take what you need.”

Jon groans and lets himself push up into it. It’s good. Tormund is good. He seems to know exactly which strings to pluck to play Jon just right, and he doesn’t care to wonder why, he just wants more.

He’s a little strung out, feels just so far past desperate. It’s crossed his mind to beg for it. Tormund thumbs the slit on his cock and it makes him whine. He doesn’t even care what kind of sounds he makes anymore, as long as Tormund doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” Tormund says.

His fingers slide back between Jon’s thighs to press just behind his balls. It makes Jon’s hips jolt and a broken cry is out before he can stop it.

“Oho,” Tormund says. He presses down again and then slides his fingers back further until they brush over Jon’s hole. His hips jump again.

“This alright?”

“I –” He can’t bring himself to say yes, so he nods instead and hopes Tormund can make it out in the dark.

Tormund’s fingers make another pass. “I need your words.”

“Yes,” Jon manages to grit out. And then he says it again when Tormund rewards him by speeding up the hand on his cock a little. And again, when Tormund circles his hole with careful fingers.

Jon is close, right at the edge and he wants so badly to fall over. It would only take the smallest push, just a little bit more.

He makes a noise, like a wordless plea; although for what, he’s not sure.

“Alright,” Tormund says, not unkindly. He pushes one finger just past the ring of muscle, thumbs the head of Jon’s cock just so, and – best of all – he leans in to put his mouth at Jon’s throat in an open-mouthed kiss with more than a little teeth.

That does it.

Jon thinks he makes a noise, but he can’t be bothered with that. His toes curl and he has to shut his eyes tight. He comes hard, harder than he has in a long time, maybe ever, he doesn’t really keep track of these things, only knows he feels warm and light and like he could float away. Tormund holds him through it, hands working slowly.

“Beautiful,” Tormund breathes.

Jon comes crashing down, suddenly aware of his body and his position and how Tormund is still hard where he pushes against Jon’s thigh.

Should he be offering to help with that?

Tormund reaches over, grabbing some discarded cloth Jon hopes isn’t important and cleans his hands and then Jon’s chest, pushing away Jon's hands when he tries to help.

“How’s that?” he asks.

Jon shivers, he feels blissfully empty, but he is starting to get cold. “I don’t think I can actually answer that. I can’t really think straight.”

“Good.” Tormund grins. He shifts up, moving off of Jon to lie back beside him again.

“Do you want –” Jon breaks off. He pushes a thigh against the prominent bulge in Tormund’s pants. He’s not sure what he would even do, if he could even –

“Much as I’d love that, that’s not what this was about. Maybe another time, if you’re up for it,” Tormund says. He reaches for the furs where they’ve pooled, and Jon has to sit up to gather his pants and pull them back up. He tugs his shirt back down and tries to settle back.

Another time?

He thinks about that for a moment. The idea makes him warm inside and he finds he’s not opposed to it. Yes, Jon thinks he would very much be up for that.

“Go to sleep now,” Tormund says.

Jon lets Tormund pull him close, and the warmth lulls him into something closer to calm.

His mind wants to churn over the implications of this, what it means for him, for them. What people would say if they knew, what his siblings would say.

But somehow, it’s easier to shut that down. He's exhausted, and small aftershocks hum pleasantly under his skin. Right now, it doesn’t matter. Right now, he’s warm and comfortable and he feels safe.

It’s much easier to drift off to sleep wrapped in Tormund’s arms.

And when he dreams, it’s warm and full of sunlight.


End file.
